


The Robber Prince

by GoblinRuler



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM, BDSM Negotiations, Bondage, Consensual Non-Consent, Dom Jaskier | Dandelion, Established poly relationships, Famed Witcher Stamina(TM), Gangbang, Gentle Dom Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt of Rivia is a Pillow Princess, Good BDSM practices, Jaskier domming the Wolves, Kidnapping Roleplay, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Safe Sane and Consensual, Sub Eskel (The Witcher), Sub Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Sub Lambert (The Witcher), This is porn y'all, established bdsm, just not for geralt, so many orgasms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:34:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25942201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoblinRuler/pseuds/GoblinRuler
Summary: “What do you want from me?” Geralt croaks, his face heating up a little at how his voice sounds. His bound hands clench into fists behind his back as he tries to stay calm.The Prince does not answer immediately, instead giving Geralt’s hair one final stroke before cupping his face once more. “Have my men not informed you, my dear witcher? I am an aficionado of the rare, the exceptional. Now that I have been blessed by your presence, I intend to find out if you are truly as remarkable as the rumors suggest. Or maybe,” he adds, and his nails dig into Geralt’s face without warning, making him flinch, “maybe you are even more extraordinary.”ORGeralt is 'ambushed' by two 'bandits' who take him before their leader, the Robber Prince. Said Prince has a taste for pretty things and lets his men in on the fun. Geralt, of course, proves to be a more than willing captive.
Relationships: Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Lambert, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Lambert
Comments: 56
Kudos: 423





	The Robber Prince

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Hunt Me Down](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24143938) by [round_robin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/round_robin/pseuds/round_robin). 
  * Inspired by [Cabinet of Curiosities](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25553989) by [rawrkinjd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rawrkinjd/pseuds/rawrkinjd), [round_robin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/round_robin/pseuds/round_robin). 
  * Inspired by [The Fire it Ignites](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24462538) by [limevodka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/limevodka/pseuds/limevodka). 
  * Inspired by [I Just Want to Feel You](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24651874) by [stfustucky (iwillpaintasongforlou)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iwillpaintasongforlou/pseuds/stfustucky). 



> **EDIT:** removed Dead Dove tag after seeing several people comment that this isn't really Dead Dove. Still, read the tags plz
> 
> This happened because I was like 'why would jaskier be the kaer morhen bicycle, geralt is the bottom in this family'. So here I am, dedicating nearly 15k to my stupid idea.
> 
> I would like to thank both round_robin and rawrkinjd for 1) their many fics featuring relationships between these charming disasters and 2) their encouragement when I mentioned, in a comment, that I had an idea. Shoutout to you two!
> 
> Inspired by this lovely piece of fanart I saw on tumblr: https://nol-nol.tumblr.com/post/622159809662304256/lil-prince-jaskier-au-thingy-i-dont-know-idea
> 
> Also, head the warnings. There's some (spoilery) plot summary in the end notes, should you need it.

“Come on, Roach,” Geralt says as he pulls the brown mare along with him, urging her on. It’s been a long day of travel and the sun is already low in the east, but he wants to get just a little further before making camp for the night. Roach, however, is dragging her hooves, clearly tired from walking ever since dawn, even though Geralt took pity on her hours ago and leaped from the saddle to walk beside her. Her saddlebags are heavy with coin as well as travel rations, from several large and successful contracts. Geralt intends to spend said coin on repairs to his armor and swords in the city he’s been travelling to for the last week. It’s still a two-day trek away and Geralt is keen to get there sooner rather than later. These woods are crawling with bandits who will be more than eager to relieve him of his money and he would like to avoid any unwanted attention.

He clicks his tongue in an attempt to spur his horse once more and huffs approvingly when she actually picks up the pace. Soon they will make camp, he tells himself, and he will give her one of the apples he got in the last village they passed. She’s earned herself a treat.

Geralt is pulled from his thoughts when he hears rustling up ahead. He pulls on the reins, bringing Roach to a halt besides him, and watches as a man steps onto the path from between the trees, blocking their way. He’s got short, dark hair and an impressive scar over the right side of his face. His clothes are black, blending in with the rapidly darkening surroundings and there’s a club casually swung over his shoulder. 

“Good evening,” the man calls out, “a fine day for a stroll, isn’t it?” He shoots Geralt a grin that could have been amicable in any other setting, his entire stance oozing confidence as his yellow gaze travels down and back up the witcher’s entire frame, taking him in at his own leisure. “Could be dangerous though, this far out and all alone. You never know what kind of ruffians you might encounter in these parts.”

Geralt sends the man a smirk of his own, dropping Roach’s reins and stepping away from her, matching the man’s casual stance. “Seems to me you know all about these ruffians you warn me about,” he says, taking his time in looking up the man and taking in any information he could use to his advantage in a fight. The club suggests an untrained fighter, relying on the threat of the heavy weapon to do most of the work for him, but the cock-sure attitude belies something else, something hidden. An overzealous fighter dies early, but this man looks like he has some years of fighting and surviving under his belt and that makes him a dangerous. He should proceed with caution. 

“Perhaps I do,” the man replies, still smirking, “perhaps I don’t. But tell you what, I happen to be in an agreeable mood and you seem eager to be on your way. How about I walk with you for a bit, help you keep those heavy saddlebags safe? For a small fee of course. I’m sure we can come to an understanding.”

Ah, there it is. Geralt huffs in amusement at the man’s audacity. He’s almost tempted to take him up on the offer, to see what he’ll do. He’ll try to rob the witcher blind, no doubt about that, and Geralt will admit that he’s curious to see how the man will try and pull a fast one on him, but the sun is getting lower and lower and he’s itching to settle down for the night. “I’m afraid I’ll have to decline,” he says, eyes fixed on the man’s face and his stance ready, waiting for the bandit to make his first strike.

The man in question hums thoughtfully. “Can’t say I expected you to accept, honestly. Shame, you seem like a decent fellow. For a witcher, I mean.”

If Geralt hadn’t been waiting for it, the first strike would have caught him off guard. The bandit shoots from his spot like an arrow from a bow string, club swinging, and Geralt barely has time to pull his sword and parry the move before the man darts to the side, quick as lighting. The air fills with the clanging of weapons as they dance around each other, the bandit meeting Geralt’s jabs and slashes with harsh blows and snarls, wielding his club with a deft hand. As the fight progresses, Geralt finds that the man is more of a challenge than he anticipated. His movements suggest practice and the strength behind his blows almost matches the witcher’s. He has to end this, sooner rather than later, or the man actually has a shot at overpowering him.

His chance comes soon enough, thankfully. The man missteps mid-twirl, a rock sliding away under his foot and he stumbles. Geralt pounces immediately, a flick of his sword swiftly disarming the bandit and a shove from his free hand slamming the man with his back against a tree. Geralt’s blade is at his throat before he can do anything else, pressing hard enough to make him feel the edge but drawing no blood. The man stills, panting in exertion, and smirks again. “Damn,” he growls, meeting Geralt’s gaze with not a hint of fear in his eyes as the witcher towers over him, “I suppose now is not the moment to make you a counteroffer?”

“How about I make you a counteroffer?” Geralt replies, pressing his sword down a little harder, the edge pressing into the man’s throat. “I take that nice club of yours and you put as much distance between you and myself as possible. You’re lucky I’m in a good mood, you bastard. A lesser man would have killed you and be done with it.”

The bandit’s grin widens. “Seems to me the lesser man’s the smarter one out of the two of you then,” he says and his gaze flickers away from Geralt for a moment, instead looking at something over the witcher’s shoulder. _Fuck._

The rope is around his neck before he can see it fall and tightens, cutting off his breath. Geralt drops his sword, more in surprise than panic, and claws at the noose, but it’s pulled so taut he can’t get his gloved fingers under it. He struggles more, but only ends up pulling the rope even tighter as his attacker pulls him away from the tree and the bandit he pinned there. A foot shoots out, kicking the back of his knee and he goes down, kneeling on the forest ground as he fights for air, dark spots dancing in front of his eyes.

“That’s enough, Eskel,” he hears the bandit say somewhere off to his side. The pressure on his throat lessens just enough that he can pull in a large gulp of air and he coughs, willing his head to stop spinning. When it does, he tries to twist around and look at his captor, but the noose immediately tightens in warning and he stills. Fuck, he should have not let the bandit goad him, he should have seen through the ruse and known it to be a diversion. Damn him for being so arrogant as to let himself be distracted.

“Don’t try anything funny now,” another voice, deep and rumbling, says from behind him and the rope around his neck tightens minutely in warning, “just real nice and easy. We won’t hurt you if you give us no reason to.”

Geralt growls, the sound cut off once more when the bandit behind him tightens the noose once more and he raises his hands in surrender. “The money’s in my saddle bags,” he grits out, ignoring the hint of shame making itself known in the back of mind, “take it.”

There’s a pause and then the man behind him - ‘Eskel’ the other bandit called him - huffs out a laugh. “I think you misunderstand the situation, witcher.”

 _Fuck._ Geralt feels an icy knot form in his stomach at those words and he grabs feebly for his sword, even though it’s far out of reach, but he has to do something, anything to help him twist this situation around. The dark-haired bandit follows his gaze and smirks, casually picking up the fallen blade and testing the weight in his hand before walking over to him. “What my dear brother means, witcher,” he says, holding up the sword and stroking Geralt’s cheek _oh so gently_ with the tip of the blade, “is that we are employed by… a connoisseur of sorts. Someone who appreciates the rarities in life, the exotic. And you, White Wolf,” and he grins at the nickname, rolling it around on his tongue like it’s an especially tasty morsel or a sip of fine wine, “you are something special, even amongst your fellow witchers. Imagine how lucky we felt when we learned it was you crossing our path. To present the White Wolf to our leader…” he drifts off, his gaze shifting from Geralt to the still unseen man behind him, “well, let’s just say that will earn us quite some appreciation amongst our peers.”

Geralt sends him a murderous look and growls, even though he knows he can’t take them, not disarmed, on his knees and with a noose around his neck. To try and do anything about it would be stupid, akin to suicide, but he balks at the thought of following these two like a meek little lamb. That, and the prospect of being brought before some kind of bandit leader like a prize horse, sits ill with him. He wonders vaguely what a bandit would want with a witcher, especially one brought before him unwillingly. The scenarios his mind conjures up at that thought are dismissed before he can properly think on them, though. No sense in panicking, he tells himself. Best to bide his time and see what happens. If he’s patient, he might get out of this with minimal harm, maybe even none.

Eskel’s voice, low and close to his ear, is what brings him back to reality. “Here’s what is going to happen, Wolf. You’re going to take off that other sword you’re carrying, as well as your armor, and give them to my brother Lambert here. Don’t worry, we will take it with us. Witcher gear or not, it’s valuable enough. Then you’re going to let us tie your hands on your back - just a precaution, I’m sure you understand - and we’ll take you to our home. Be smart about this, witcher, and we won’t have to be hard on you. You won’t like it when we do.”

Geralt swallows about half a dozen witty retorts at the threats, which are a lot tamer than what townsfolk and other people used to throw his way whenever they saw him. Still, the underlying tone of Eskel’s words belies something… darker, something almost animalistic, and until he knows exactly what he’s up against he should play his cards carefully. He complies to the request, unbuckling the belts holding his silver sword and the empty scabbard for his steel sword on his back, and tosses them at the bandit - _Lambert_ \- ‘s feet. The man coos in appreciation as he picks them up, running his fingers across the intricately carved leather and metal decorations, before gleefully strapping them to his own back, ignoring the murderous look Geralt sends him. The witcher takes his time taking off his armor, tossing piece after piece onto the ground until he’s in his shirt and trousers, still on his knees and watching as the bandit picks it all up and ties it together into a neat bundle. He sets the bundle at his feet once more and produces another length of rope from his belt. Eskel nudges Geralt to his feet and turns him around, his back to Lambert now, so the latter can tie the witcher’s wrists together, crossing them against the small of his back. Geralt does not say a word to Eskel, instead taking his time to take in the broad, scarred face of his captor, the brown hair framing his face on both sides and the red of his gambeson. Eskel meets his piercing gaze unflinching, the hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth while Lambert loops the rope around Geralt’s wrists and secures them together tightly. “Comfortable?” he asks mockingly, his grin evident in the tone of his voice.

Geralt hums, tugging at the bonds to test their security and realizing with a pang of worry that they’re stronger than he anticipated, the knot tight and firm and out of his reach. Wiggling out of these unnoticed it not an option.

“Good!” Lambert claps him on the shoulder like they’re friends. “Now then, one more thing to do and we’re off!” Strong hands wrap around his tied wrists and hold him in a tight grip as Eskel loosens the noose before slipping it up and over Geralt’s head. For a brief moment, Geralt can’t believe his luck - do they actually believe then can contain him just by tying his hands? But then he sees the item Eskel pulls from his belt and his hopes die as quickly as they soared. Eskel smirks again, an unspoken challenge in his eyes, as he wraps the thick leather collar around Geralt’s throat and pulls it just tight enough to be snug, securing the metal buckle and the small pin locking it in place. The collar has two rings, one on either side, and Geralt feels a pang of humiliation as the bandits secure a rope to each ring with a tight knot before taking the ends, holding tight. He’s well and truly trapped.

“Let’s go,” Eskel grunts with a tug on his end of rope, both a test and a warning. Lambert hums and casually walks from behind Geralt, bending at the waist to pick up the bundled up armor before setting off towards Roach, his other hand casually swinging his rope. Geralt growls and makes to follow him, but Eskel pulls him back threateningly and he has to slow down to a walking pace. Lambert has reached Roach by now, patting her gently and making soft cooing noises as he ties the bundle to her saddle. When he finishes, he takes her reins in his free hand and starts to walk. Roach follows without complaint.

“In front,” Eskel grunts and Geralt obediently speeds up until he’s walking in the middle, Lambert leading the procession alongside Roach and Eskel closing the ranks. Both bandits hold onto their rope firmly, keeping him in place between them. They walk in relative silence, only broken by Lambert occasionally whistling to himself, clicking his tongue to make Roach keep up the pace as they go. Geralt shifts his arms from time to time, rolling his shoulders in an attempt to keep the muscles loose enough, should he need to move quickly. Both ends of the rope stays lax, the men are clearly at ease with the situation. He considers making a run for it - seeing if he can reach Lambert and take him by surprise - but he can almost feel Eskel on the other end of the rope, ready to pull it tight and strangle him if he so much as twitches the wrong way. So he grits his teeth and bears it, keeping pace with the men as they keep on walking, the sun setting overhead and the darkness slowly setting in as night falls over the forest.

Then they walk around a bend and the trees part to reveal their goal. The remains of what once must have been a formidable fortress, now a crumbling ruin, rises up from the meadow ahead. Only one of its four towers still stands to it’s original height, the rest half-collapsed and fallen apart, just like the gate, which they are now approaching. Lambert picks up the pace, tugging on his end of the rope and Geralt stumbles as he tries to match the pace, unable to use his arms to balance himself. He feels the rope behind him to a little more taut before Eskel, too, speeds up, raising his voice. “Welcome to our home, Wolf. I’m sure your stay will be most pleasant.” There’s a hint of dark amusement in the man’s voice and it sits ill with Geralt. Through his life as a witcher, he’s been cursed, spat at and shunned, but this, this is different. The way they caught him, the way they move, the things they say… they hint at something unknown, something obscured, and it makes a pit of worry form in his stomach. He’s not sure he wants to find out what they have planned.

Lambert throws open the old wooden doors of the gate and strolls into the small courtyard behind it, gently pulling Roach along. They pause long enough for him to lead her into a surprisingly well-kept stable. Geralt growls when the bandit casually leads his mare into a box, takes off her saddle and reins and gets her set up, but neither of the men respond, nor when he warns them not to touch any of the potions in his saddle bags. They simply lead him back to the courtyard, flanking him now, coiling up the ropes a bit but still staying out of kicking range, Eskel on his left and Lambert on his right.

The doors into the large keep open with barely a sound, only the soft creak of old wood shifting in its hinges. The front hall is spacious, made of the same grey rock as the outer walls. There’s some hunting trophies on the walls, patchy and old, with a fine layer of dust covering them. Geralt has little time to properly inspect the trophies though, as his captors close the doors behind them with a resolute bang and the hall is bathed in dusk, the sounds from the outside muffled by the ancient wood. Lambert walks past him, pulling him along towards a smaller door at the end of the hall. From beyond that door, Geralt’s keen ears pick up a new sound, that of a lute being plucked, and a soft voice humming along with the music. It seems the men dragging him along have picked up on the sound too, because they start moving faster, tugging on the rope urgently.

The small door leads to a much larger room, although ‘room’ does not seem to be the right word for the space. The ceiling is high and supported by pillars of grey marble, connected by decorative and imposing arches. There’s tapestries on the walls, a large wooden table with long benches on one side and at the very end, a raised dais on which stands a wooden chair that would not look out of place in the throne room of a king. And on that chair…

Geralt’s first impression is that the man is a bit of a dandy, what with the fine, colourful clothes and many golden rings he’s wearing. There’s also the almost calculated way he’s lounging in the chair, one leg slung over the armrest like he hasn’t got a care in the world. He’s got a lute in his lap, which he continues to strum lazily as he watches the three men approach, his bright blue eyes fixed on Geralt, an anticipatory smile on his pink mouth. The roundness of his face and messiness of his brown hair are almost deceptive, giving him an air of innocence that is almost convincing. It’s the look in his eyes though, wild and hungry, that makes Geralt pause, falling one step behind his captors before he’s pulled forwards roughly, stumbling and falling to his knees in front of the dais. Two heavy hands land on his shoulders instantly, preventing him from getting up.

Lambert, on Geralt’s right, takes a deep bow. “My lord,” he says as he straightens, that smug grin of his evident in his voice, “look what we found on the road just now.” His fingers dig into Geralt’s shoulder as if indicating him.

The man - who, Geralt is sure, doesn’t have a noble bone in his body - does not say anything at first. His gaze travels down Geralt’s entire frame slowly, drinking him in and the witcher suppresses a shiver at the intensity in those piercing blue eyes when they meet his own. He clenches his teeth and stares back, refusing to look away.

His stubbornness seems to please the bandit leader. The man’s grin seems to curl a little at the edges, not widening, but getting more intense nonetheless. With a nonchalant gesture, he sets down the lute next to his throne and swings his leg off the armrest, sitting up straight. “My my, isn’t this a surprise,” he purrs, his voice a rich tenor with a sweet undertone - like honey and wildflowers - and he leans forwards in his seat. “The White Wolf of Rivia. It is an honor to receive you at my court.”

“You seem to have me at a disadvantage,” Geralt grunts, flashing his teeth at the man who is too close and at the same time too far away from him. “You seem to know who I am, but I am afraid I have never heard of you.” The hand on his right shoulder - Eskel’s - tightens slightly, letting him know that his jab has not gone unnoticed.

The man, however, let’s out a laugh, deep and rolling, and claps his hands, as if Geralt’s reply is the funniest thing he has ever heard. “Of course, how rude of me to assume you would know of me. I suppose your reputation as a man of the world is exaggerated, then.” He spreads his arms out. “Allow me to introduce myself, then. I am the Robber Prince, the ruler of this keep and the woods surrounding it.” His eyes twinkle mischievously.

Geralt growls, but says nothing. He can’t get a good read on this man, this common bandit playing at being a ruler. There is something hiding beneath those blue eyes, those silks and rings, something wild and unknown and _dangerous_. For all that the men on either side of him actually caught him, he feels like this Prince is the truly dangerous one.

A hand shoots out faster than he can duck away and the Prince’s fingers clench around his chin, forcing his head up. The man’s grin hasn’t faltered one bit, but the twinkle in his eyes has become… deeper, somehow, more heated, like a burning ember instead of the spark it seemed just a moment ago. Geralt growls and the men on either side of him tense, their grip on his shoulders getting stronger too. The Prince’s gaze bores into Geralt’s as he tips the witcher’s head back, examining him lazily, almost appraisingly. “I must say, when I heard of the famous White Wolf, I found myself wondering how such a creature could exist,” the Prince muses, his other hand under his chin, finger tapping his cheek as he leans his elbow on his knee. “The stories I heard, of your deeds as well as your looks… I must say I was sceptical at first, but I am a curious person by nature. I but I see the rumors did not do you justice.” His thumb rubs across Geralt’s chin, catching his bottom lip tenderly, almost lovingly and it makes Geralt’s stomach tie itself in knots of dread. “You truly are a most exquisite being,” the Prince continues, reverently, “I have never seen anything that compares to you.” His thumb giving Geralt’s mouth a final stroke before those surprisingly strong fingers card through his hair, pulling at the leather tie that holds most of it together. His long white hair slips free after a final tug, falling forwards in strands that brush his cheeks and the Prince combs his hand through it, as if he’s marveling at the feel of it and Geralt feels his mouth go a little dry at the look on the Prince’s face. 

“What do you want from me?” he croaks, his face heating up a little at how his voice sounds. Fuck, he can’t show any weakness, not here, not when he’s outnumbered and outmaneuvered. His bound hands clench into fists behind his back as he tries to stay calm.

The Prince does not answer immediately, instead giving Geralt’s hair one final stroke before cupping his face once more. “Have my men not informed you, my dear witcher? I am an aficionado of the rare, the exceptional. Now that I have been blessed by your presence, I intend to find out if you are truly as remarkable as the rumors suggest. Or maybe,” he adds, and his nails dig into Geralt’s face without warning, making him flinch, “maybe you are even more extraordinary.” He pulls back suddenly, his hand leaving Geralt’s face and he gets up from his throne. “You know where to take him,” he says to Eskel and Lambert, who have not moved, “get him ready. I will join you shortly.” From the corner of his eye, Geralt can see the bandits nod.

“Up you go, big boy,” Lambert cajoles, giving the rope he’s still holding a sharp yank. Geralt is startled by the sudden movement and almost falls backwards, only for Eskel to steady him with a hand to his back. They pull him to his feet swiftly and march him off towards another door, in the back of the large room. Geralt chances one look over his shoulder to the Prince, who has stepped off the dais and is making his way to a door on the opposite side of the room.

The two men waste no time in pulling him along, through doors and hallways and up several sets of stairs. Finally, they arrive at yet another door, which Eskel pushes open without ceremony before yanking on the rope, pulling Geralt inside before he realizes what’s going on. Lambert wastes no time in shutting the door behind them and coming up behind Geralt, grabbing onto the collar firmly. “No funny business,” he growls as both men undo the knots still tying the ropes to the collar. Eskel collects both and coils them up swiftly and Geralt uses that moment to take in the room they’re in, to get a grasp of where this is going.

He freezes when he spots the bed taking up most space in the room, large and covered in pillows and silk sheets and framed by four posts on each corner. The knot of dread in his stomach explodes as he finally understands the cryptic words of the bandits and their Prince and realization slams into him like a rabid dragon. Lambert, still behind him, must see him tense, because he starts to say something, but Geralt gives him no chance. He stomps down on the bandit’s booted foot and yanks free when Lambert yowls in surprise and pain. Eskel, who has not yet finished coiling the ropes, shouts too, but is too slow to dodge as Geralt barrels into him, his arms still tied behind his back but the element of surprise giving him a momentary advantage. The scarred bandit lets out a surprised ‘oomph’ when Geralt’s shoulder comes in contact with his stomach and he’s slammed against the wall behind him, stunned for a second. Geralt wastes no time, using his captors’ momentary daze to run for the door, which is closed but not locked. However, his still bound hands make grabbing onto the handle difficult and he grunts in frustration, desperately trying to lift the latch and get out, get out of this room, get away.

Strong hands grab him and yank him away from the door before he can open it. Geralt shouts and tries to twist around, tries to pull from the strong grip, but there’s a fist in his hair and hands on the collar he still wears and he’s dragged unceremoniously to the bed and pushed down on it face-first, a strong weight on his lower back keeping him pinned. “We could have done this the easy way, Wolf,” Lambert growls in his ear as he tries to fight back, his face pressed into downy pillows and making it difficult to breathe, “all you had to do was be nice for ten fucking seconds. Then again, we should have known you would be a difficult catch. Not to worry, Eskel and I have experience with unwilling prey. Besides,” he adds, his lips almost brushing against Geralt’s skin as he leans in close, “in my honest opinion, the challenge makes it way more fun.”

They make quick work of his shirt with the help of a small knife or dagger, clearly unwilling to take the risk of untying him now that he’s shown to be more trouble than he let on. Geralt finally gives up on trying to fight back when he feels the seams of his shirt give under Eskel’s careful ministrations and then the fabric is pulled away and he’s left shirtless and shivering, but not because of the cold. More ropes encircle his upper arms and chest, forming an intricate and firm framework of knots, and then the ties around his wrists are removed, so they can rearrange his arms more firmly, folding them and tying his wrists to his elbows, wrapping the rope around them several times to form bonds stronger than he can break. 

They pause their work when the door creaks open, followed by soft footsteps into the room. “My my, this is a marvelous sight!” The Prince sounds almost giddy and Geralt feels his face burn in humiliation, pressing further into the pillows and refusing to look up. He will not give that man the satisfaction of seeing his expression. The choice is taken from him, however, when the weight on his back disappears and he’s yanked upright by the rope harness around his torso. He ends up on his knees on the middle of the bed, his cheeks pink with both shame and fury. The Prince is lounging in a chair by the window, casually holding a large goblet of what is probably wine, and gazing at Geralt hungrily. “It seems you gave my men some trouble, Wolf,” he grins and the expression on his face is eager, as if Geralt’s defiance pleases him, “but I can’t say I don’t like the results. Tell me, are you going to be good for us now or do you intend on making this more difficult?”

“Fuck you,” Geralt growls, struggling against the ropes even though he knows its futile. Whatever these ropes are made of, it withstands his pulling and the knots are too tight for him to slip out. 

“Hmmm, tempting,” the Prince purrs, gazing at him from over the rim of his goblet, “but not yet. I think I’d rather watch for a little while.” He gives his men a single nod before leaning back in his chair, taking a slow, languid sip of wine. 

Eskel and Lambert are on him again in an instant, pushing him back down on the mattress. Geralt growls and twists, trying to resist as they pull off his boots, leaving him only in his black trousers. The dread he felt earlier is slowly blooming into alarm. He’s helpless, he realizes as strong fingers tug on the laces on his trousers, helpless and at the mercy of these men and their whims. They can do whatever they want to him and he’s powerless to do anything about it. He shivers at the thought, but the wave of fear that washes over him is accompanied by something else, a heat that starts in his belly and blooms as his trousers are tugged down roughly. His face starts to glow, his palms start to sweat and then the heat pools even lower and he can feel certain body parts start to respond in an unmistakable way as the bandits finally free his feet from the legs of his trousers. Geralt feels another surge of shame, which only seems to intensify his arousal and he grits his teeth, praying for the men not to notice his slowly stiffening cock as they climb onto the bed with him and start to wrap ropes around his ankles.

When they finish, Geralt’s legs are folded, calf to thigh, and tied firmly, leaving him unable to stand up or kick. The knots are secure, but not so tight as to cut off circulation and Geralt can feel his head go a little light as he tests the binds and finds them as unyielding as the ones around his torso. This gives him another surge of desire and he vaguely wonders what he looks like right now, face-down and trussed up. At least they can’t see the full effect the ropes have on him, he thinks. 

A hand fists in his hair and his face is turned. Eskel looms over him, his eyes dark and pupils wide as he grins at him. “One last chance, Wolf. If you’re good to us, we’ll be good to you. Are you going to be good for us?”

Geralt bares his teeth at him. “I’m going to kill you for this,” he growls, relieved to find his voice without a hint of fear as he meets Eskel’s heated gaze dead-on. “I will get out of this and I will fucking kill you all.” 

Eskel’s eyes don’t leave his face, but he sighs, almost mockingly. “Should have known you would not make this any easier. Very well, if that is your wish…” He pushes Geralt back down, pressing his face into the pillows and Geralt can’t help the moan that escapes him as he feels the bed dip once more. Lambert crawls up next to him, greedy hands all over his shoulders and back as Geralt pulls on his binds, tries to wiggle out of the knots despite knowing that it’s futile, that he can’t do anything against them, that they can do anything they want to him and he-

“Wait.” The voice is clear as a bell and it feels to Geralt like he’s being pulled to the surface after being underwater for a while. He can feel Eskel and Lambert sit back, their presences a little less threatening, halting their play. Soft footsteps approach the bed and a gentle hand lands on his left wrist, squeezing reassuringly. “Geralt,” Jaskier says, his voice devoid of threat or heat, instead steady and gentle, “Geralt, before we continue, I want you to say your word.”

For a moment, Geralt has no idea what he means, still lost in the haze of the scene, the bite of the rope, the thrumming of his blood, but then a gentle hand cards through his hair and turns it gently. Jaskier is kneeling next to the bed, his face a picture of soft admiration and he gives Geralt a loving smile. “You do look wonderful like this,” he whispers, though everyone in the room can surely hear him, “taking everything they dish out. I can’t wait to continue. But just so we all know, so we all remember,” and his gaze leaves Geralt for a moment, as if he’s checking in with the other two as well, “just so we all remember what we agreed to. One word, from either of us, and we all stop.” He looks back at Geralt, expectantly. “I want your word, Geralt. Show me that you remember. What do you say if you want us to stop?”

“Medallion,” Geralt growls out, forcing the word from behind gritted teeth. He knows that Jaskier is not trying to humiliate him, knows that they agreed to the word for a reason, but saying it still feels like a weakness, like he’s admitting to some failure.Part of him wants to just grin and bear whatever his partners see fit to do to him, despite his discomfort, certain that he can take whatever they throw at him. However, Jaskier had been firm on this, unyielding, explaining his reasons and finally, when Geralt kept refusing, asking outright if Geralt would expect _him_ to just grin and bear whatever the witcher wanted. The thought of it, of just taking what he wanted from Jaskier, ignoring the bard’s pleasure or even his comfort, had horrified and nauseated Geralt and driven the point home more firmly than anything.

So Geralt closes his eyes for a moment, breathes in through his nose and tries to steady his heartbeat before repeating himself, firmly this time, determined to show that he understands what Jaskier is really asking of him. Jaskier, clearly pleased, smiles, pride and admiration evident in his eyes and it’s that pride that takes Geralt breath away, makes him feel like he’s floating again and he drinks it in, eagerly. 

“Thank you, my darling,” Jaskier whispers, reverently, “you’re doing amazing. One more thing before we continue. I want to see your sign. What do you do if you want us to stop, but can’t use your word?”

Geralt is still a bit dizzy from everything, the words swirling around in his mind for a second before he registers them. Then he hums, soft and throaty, and with his right hand, he makes the sign of Igni, feeling the small, wavering flame appear on his index finger. The small flame feels like an anchor, a failsafe and he’s grateful to Jaskier for asking it of him, for ensuring that even if he can’t talk, he’ll have a way out, free of judgement. 

“Good,” Jaskier says as Geralt dismisses the flame, his hand leaving Geralt’s hair only to grasp his left hand firmly, squeezing it, “well done. I trust you to use it if you want to stop at any time. Will you promise me to do that, Geralt? Any time you’re uncomfortable, any time you want to stop, I want to know. We want to know.” Jaskier’s fingers squeeze his left hand once more, assuringly, and Geralt feels a surge of affection for this strange and wonderful man. He’s safe, safer than he’s ever been and that again sends a wave of heat through him unlike anything he’s ever known. He nods and gently squeezes back, hoping to telegraph everything he can’t say into it. _'I know. I love you, I trust you. I want to do this.'_ Jaskier seems to understand perfectly, despite no words being exchanged. The bard huffs softly, affection clear in the sound, and with one final squeeze he retreats, sitting back on the matress and slipping back into his role. 

“Well then, boys,” the Prince says, his voice dark and heated and dangerous and Geralt can feel gooseflesh pimpling his skin at the sound, “don’t keep me in suspense any longer, let me see your work.”

Geralt grunts when the men pull him upright, forcing him once more into a kneeling position and he feels his cheeks darken once more when his half-hard cock springs free, no longer pressed into the mattress. The Prince’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise, which quickly turns into appreciation and he grins. “My my, dear witcher, it seems you are enjoying this a little more than I expected. Hmm,” he pauses, tapping his chin thoughtfully, as if pondering where to go from here, “part of me wants to see how you look in the throes of pleasure, but I feel you haven’t earned that privilege just yet. Not after how you treated my men, not to mention my hospitality. Shame.” He claps his hands together, as if making up his mind about something. “Thankfully, I have just the solution for that!” The Prince pats his clothes for a second as if looking for something, before pulling a small, ornate wooden box from his doublet and putting it down on the mattress before flipping open the lid, obscuring the contents. “I must say I’m grateful for your eagerness, dear Wolf,” he grins, leaning in so close that their noses are almost touching as he pulls something unseen from the small box, “I’ve had these little trinkets in my possession for a while now, but I’ve never had a chance to see them in action. But now that you’re here…”

Fingers wrap around his cock and Geralt lets out a surprised moan at the sudden contact, the Prince’s hand strong and warm as he strokes Geralt gently, almost experimentally, bringing him to full stiffness. Then he feels something else, a ring of some sorts, slowly being dragged down his shaft until it rests at the base of his cock, snug but not tight. “This little thing,” the Prince whispers as he gives Geralt’s cock one final squeeze, “is truly a marvelous piece of magical engineering. I had it commissioned by an acquaintance of mine, a true master in her field, if you ask me.” He grins devilishly before reaching down once more to grab something else from the small box. “I won’t spoil the exact working right now, though. I’m sure you’ll understand its workings soon enough.” 

With a soft click, the Prince closes the box and slips it back into his doublet, still palming the other mystery object. “I’m afraid this one is less impressive, compared to its counterpart,” he continues, almost as if he’s lecturing, “but I’m sure you’ll love it all the same. Lambert, dear, would you like to do the honors?”

“With pleasure,” Lambert growls. He moves behind Geralt and holds out his hand for the Prince, who slips him the object before crawling back but not leaving the bed just yet, instead leaning back on his heels, a look of anticipation clear in his eyes. 

Geralt’s ears pick up the sound of a jar or bottle being unstoppered and then he jumps a little when he feels something warm and slick nudging his behind. He lets out a sound of alarm and tries to wiggle away, but Eskel’s arm is strong around his chest, the bandit’s other hand once more grabbing him by the hair and forcing his head back. “Keep still,” the scarred man growls into his ear as something smooth, slick and hard nudges Geralt’s cheeks apart and starts to slide in slowly, spreading him open in a way that is intrusive and agonizing and so, so good. He moans, the sound half-broken as the bulbous head of what must be a plug breaches his entrance and slots into place after a gentle but firm push from Lambert, who swears under his breath as he pushes the plug home. “Look how well he takes it,” the man breathes, giving the protruding end of the plug a soft tap, making Geralt jolt, biting his lip as to not let out another sound. He won’t give these men the satisfaction, he won’t. 

Suddenly, Lambert grabs the end of the plug and pulls it out a little before pushing it back in and Geralt arches, torn between pulling away from the bandit’s invading hands and pushing back against him, begging for it. His cock twitches, curved and upright as it it, smearing his belly with precome as Lambert repeats the action again and again and Geralt whines in the back of his throat, feeling pressure build in his lower belly. 

“That’s quite enough for now, Lambert,” the Prince says as he gets up and moves back to take his position on his chair, pouring himself another goblet of wine, “as enjoyable as his squirming is, I think he has to earn his pleasure. Let’s see if he can be good enough for that, shall we, boys?” He leans back in his chair with a smirk, gazing at the three men on the bed. “Now then, dear Eskel, I think you get first go at that pretty mouth of his. Look at him, all open and ready to take your cock.” He lifts his goblet to his mouth. “Let’s see how long it takes him to beg, hmm?”

Lambert pulls his hands away from the plug, ignoring Geralt’s growl, and instead grabs the witcher’s tied arms firmly, preventing him from falling over as Eskel releases him just long enough to crawl in front of him. Geralt watches, a mixture of terror and anticipation swirling in his stomach, as he undoes the laces of his breeches and pushes them down just enough to free his cock, which stands proudly upright, precome beading at the head. The sight makes Geralt’s mouth water and he licks his lips, momentarily forgetting where he is. Then he feels a tug at the ropes and he remembers himself and starts to twist again, trying to pull away, snarling.

Eskel fists a hand in his hair once more and roughly pulls his head down, until his face is at level with the man’s cock. “Don’t even think of biting,” he growls and before Geralt can snap a reply, he wedges a callused thumb between the witcher’s jaws, forcing his mouth open and pushing past his teeth. Geralt gets one final growl out before he’s pulled forwards and his mouth is filled, stuffed to the brim with hot, throbbing flesh. Eskel forces him to take it, pushing in so far that Geralt gags slightly, the head of his cock brushing the witcher’s throat. Behind Geralt, Lambert hisses, swears and then tightens his grip on the binds to keep Geralt from wiggling away as Eskel fists one hand in his hair, the other on the collar around his neck, and starts to thrust, harsh and brutal.

Geralt let out a whine as Eskel fucks his face, the sound muffled by both Eskel’s cock and the obscene, slurping sounds they make. It’s too much and at the same time not enough and he struggles feebly, panting through his nose and drooling uncontrollably, trying to relax his throat muscles, head spinning with the cacophony of sensations. Eskel’s musky scent, the press of the ropes, Lambert’s hands tight around his arms, the ache of his jaw, the throb of his own cock… Geralt moans, his mouth falling open even wider and his jaw aching as he lets go, lets Eskel thrust into his mouth as he pleases. Fuck, if this keeps going, he’s going to come without any of them touching him, his entire body strumming with pleasure as he rocks his hips, feeling his cock bounce against his chest and the plug inside of him shift and rub with every movement.

Lambert, still behind him, chuckles darkly. “Fuck, look how desperate he is,” he says, his voice deep with arousal, “moaning like a whore already. Think he’s gonna come the moment we touch his cock, look at him, he’s ready to burst!”

“I’m afraid he’s going to have to wait his turn,” the Prince replies and there’s something in his voice, something darkly amused, as if he’s privy to something he’s not telling just yet. “He’s going to have to work very hard for his pleasure, like I said. But he’s doing very well so far, don’t you think? Sucking cock like he’s made for it, like it’s all he’s ever wanted to do.” He pauses, as if in deep thought, taking a sip of his wine and smacking his lips before he continues. “Hmmm, now I’m considering what other plans we have for him tonight. Part of me wants you two to fuck his throat until he’s hoarse with it, just to see him take you time after time again but…” There’s a tapping, fingers against the rim of a goblet, as if in thought. “Then again, you saw how well he took that plug we fitted him with. My my, the things we can do to that lovely hole of his. How many fingers do you think he could take before he’s begging for it? Three? Four?” 

Lambert swears, voice breaking on the second syllable, and Eskel’s hips stutter under the Prince’s words. Geralt feels the rough hands falter for a second, as if he’s momentarily incapacitated, before they grip him once more and Eskel speeds up, pounding his throat with a vigor that signals how close he is. The Prince seems to notice too, because he keeps talking. “I can’t wait to see either of you fucking him. See how he’s going to take you both, one after the other, wreck him so he can barely walk tomorrow. I think he could take it, take it easily and keep on begging for more.” There’s a deliberate, almost heavy pause, as if the Prince considers something, and then he adds, his voice so heavy with smugness and lust that he’s almost purring, “I bet he could take you two at the same time.” 

Eskel, still pounding, whines at those words, his hands tight in Geralt’s hair as he buries himself so deep in Geralt’s throat that the witcher’s nose meets the curls at the base of his cock and he comes, hot and pulsing, down Geralt’s throat. He stills for a moment, panting and trembling, before pulling away and out of Geralt’s mouth. The witcher coughs, then clenches his jaw in an attempt to make the ache stop and tries to curl into himself, humiliated both by what they just did to him and how his body is responding to it.

As if he can hear Geralt’s thoughts, Eskel’s fingers wrap around Geralt’s own cock, which has not flagged one bit, and gives is a couple of slow, firm strokes, chuckling as Geralt tries to pull away. “Seems like I wasn’t the only one enjoying myself,” he rumbles, squeezing a little harder and making Geralt gasp from behind clenched teeth, nostrils flaring and eyes blazing with fury. It only earns him another chuckle and then Eskel leans away again, undoing the ties of his gambeson and throwing the garment off the bed in a flourish, leaving him in his shirt, boots and still undone pants. “Your turn, Lambert.”

The man behind Geralt lets out a growl, filled with desire and the two swift positions quickly, Eskel now behind him and holding him firmly, while Lambert crawls in front of him onto the bed. Lambert too makes quick work of his tunic, as well as his boots, before he gets closer and kneels in front of Geralt, his grin wicked and his pupils blown so wide his eyes seem almost black. “Fuck, he does look amazing like this,” he says as he undoes his pants, the desire in his voice sending another shock-wave through Geralt’s system, “Gods, we can do anything we want to him and he’ll love every second of it.” 

Geralt shivers at those words, his eyes almost rolling in the back of his head when Lambert, like Eskel before, grabs onto the collar and pulls him down. He’s got his mouth open before he can properly consider it and Lambert eagerly thrusts his leaking prick home, panting as he starts to pump his hips. He’s gentler than Eskel, but only just, pulling Geralt down and forcing him to meet every thrust, moaning as the witcher, emboldened, hollows his cheeks and starts to suck in rhythm with the man’s thrusts. “Eager little whore,” he growls and Geralt whines, feeling his cock harden even more at the words as well as the feel of Lambert’s cock sliding in and out of his mouth. The whine becomes a full-on keen when Eskel, now behind Geralt, starts to toy with the plug, twisting and tugging at it and sending jolts of electric pleasure through the witcher’s entire body. He moans, twitches and wiggles, tries to pull of Lambert’s cock to beg for more, but the man in front of him won’t have any of it, instead pulling him back down and starting to fuck his throat in earnest now. “I don’t think so, witcher, You’re going to keep sucking me off until I’ve come down that pretty throat of yours.” Geralt whines, louder this time, the sound garbled by the flesh still sliding in and out of his mouth, and he hears the Prince, still in his chair, laugh. 

“Beg all you want, dear witcher,” he says, his voice husky and breathless, accompanied by the sound of skin on skin - fuck, is he touching himself to the sight of them? - “it won’t do you any good. You get your rewards when we’re satisfied and only then. But I promise,” he sighs, shifts, and Geralt hears the rustling of clothing being pulled off and thrown aside, “I promise that you’ll love what we’ll give you if you’re good for us.” 

As if to drive the point home, Eskel tugs on the plug again, making it catch on the rim of Geralt’s hole before driving it back in with the same ferocity and drawing a muffled shout from the witcher. Geralt mewls and wiggles, his hips twitching with short, shallow thrusts despite the lack of any surface to rub against and he feels his cock jerk, feels his impending orgasm and he pants, desperate for it in a way he hasn’t been in ages. 

But it doesn’t happen. Geralt lets out another whine and tries, despite his limited mobility, to thrust back against Eskel and the plug, tries to ask for what he wants in the only way he can, moaning when Eskel pushes it in deeper, hitting his prostate dead on. Lambert, meanwhile, has slowed down just a little, thrusting his prick lazily in and out of Geralt’s now slack mouth, as if he’s waiting for something. “Is something the matter, Wolf?” he drawls and Geralt feels something not unlike anticipation at the obvious smirk in his voice. He grunts, the sound cut off when Lambert thrusts up suddenly and pulls him down at the same time, making him choke and drool and sending yet another wave of shameful pleasure coursing through his veins. The bandit’s hands are firm, holding him in place as his hips jerk minutely, quick and shallow thrusts that make the abused muscles of Geralt’s throat flutter and ache, his head spinning from the lack of oxygen as well as Lambert’s cock suddenly spurting down his throat.

Lambert, unlike Eskel, does not pull away immediately, releasing the collar with one hand only to stroke Geralt’s hair gently, even if he won’t let him pull away just yet. “So good, Wolf,” he croons, and Geralt both loves and hates the way his belly flutters at the praising words, keening softly in the back of his throat as the bandit pulls back gently, his softening cock falling from Geralt’s lips as he does, dragging a small thread of saliva and come down the witcher’s chin. Lambert stills when he sees the bit of fluid and before Geralt can gain his balance, he’s dragged upright by the ropes circling his torso and the bandit pulls him close and _licks_ at his chin, lapping up the mixture of the both of them like it’s honey. Geralt snarls and tries to twist away, but the bandit only laughs, his teeth catching on Geralt’s lower lip and biting down for only a moment before letting him go again, moving away from him. 

“Lovely,” whispers the Prince, shirtless and palming himself through his breeches, “absolutely lovely. You are a marvel to look at, White Wolf.” He squeezes himself a little more firmly, the outline of his cock clearly visible through the fabric, and then sits up a little more. “How’re you doing, Eskel?” he drawls, addressing the man still behind Geralt, “you think he’s ready for the next round?” 

“Even if he isn’t,” Eskel says, as he tugs sharply on the plug, almost pulling it out but not quite, “I sure am.” He puts emphasis on his words by pushing the plug back in, slowly this time, chuckling in Geralt’s ear as the witcher grits his teeth and archs his back, desperate for more. “A little hot and bothered, are you?” he murmurs, his left hand stroking Geralt’s flank almost lovingly as he plasters himself against the witcher’s back, still tugging on the flared end of the plug with his right.

Geralt lets out another grunt, then a moan when Eskel pinches a nipple, rolling the small bud between callused fingers for a moment, then moving to do the same to the other nipple. The bandit presses himself against him hip to shoulder, his cock hard and insistent against Geralt’s backside as he mouths at the nape of his neck, gentle at first, then harder, his teeth grazing over his pulse-point before biting down, one of his hands traveling down to grip the witcher’s leaking cock. This time, Geralt can’t hold back his whimper, his head falling back against Eskel’s shoulder. So good, fuck, he’s so close, almost, _almost…_

Lambert suddenly appears in front of him again, having liberated himself from his shirt, and taps Eskel on the forehead once. “Don’t tease him too much, Eskel, he hasn’t earned his reward yet.”

“’M not rewarding him yet,” Eskel replies, still mouthing at the bite-mark on Geralt’s neck, those strong but gentle fingers still stroking him at an agonizing pace, “he hasn’t asked nicely, after all. Just giving him a little taste of what he’ll get if he’s good.” He squeezes a little harder and Geralt’s eyes roll into the back of his head at the wave of pleasure that flows through him, pressing into the bandit’s hand and trying to thrust faster, harder, anything to take the edge off, just once, of he might go mad before the evening is over. He whines again, more desperate this time, as the pressure builds and builds, but the relief of orgasm just does not happen. 

“Having trouble there, dear Wolf?” the Prince crows, and there’s something in his voice, something almost cheeky, as if he knows something Geralt doesn’t and can’t wait to rub it in. Hang on…

“What…” Geralt pants, his tongue feeling strangely thick and sluggish in his mouth, his head swimming with pleasure, “what did you do to me?”

“Amazing, isn’t it?” The Prince takes one slow, final sip from his goblet before he continues. “Real lovely work, that little ring. Cost me more than I will ever admit, but from the results, I say it was worth every single crown.” He shoots Geralt another leering grin, eyes dark and teeth taking on an almost sharp appearance. “As long as you’re wearing that, my dear witcher, you can’t come. You can squirm, moan and beg all you want, fuck, you could wank for an entire week and still you wouldn’t know release.” He winks, a gesture far too innocent after what he just told Geralt, and leans back in his chair once more. “Of course, I could be persuaded to take it off… if you ask real nice. Would you like to try?”

Instead of answering, Geralt snarls at him, jerking weakly against the two men still holding him tight, in a feeble attempt to get to the Prince and rip his throat out with his teeth.

The Prince doesn’t seem ruffled in the slightest. “I was hoping you wouldn’t give in so easily. You never fail to disappoint, Wolf.” His gaze drifts over to Eskel. “I think you get to take him first, dear Eskel. Why don’t you put him to work for a bit? That might make him a little more… agreeable, shall we say.”

Once more, the bandit switch positions, Lambert retaking his place behind Geralt to hold him and Eskel, after tugging his shirt over his head and stepping out of his boots, crawls onto the bed and positions himself against the headboard, supported by the many pillows. He grabs Geralt roughly and, assisted by Lambert, hauls the witcher on top of him, forcing him to straddle his hips, grinding up and rubbing their cocks together. Geralt closes his eyes and bites his lower lip in an effort to muffle the whine bubbling up in his throat, inhaling sharply when Eskel repeats the action, more deliberate this time, a sly grin on his face. “Should have known you’d be easy like this, Wolf. You put on a tough front, but you love to be bossed around, don’t you? You like being tied up and toyed with, not being in control, just laying back and waiting for it to happen.”

“No,” Geralt groans, but he thrusts back eagerly, his body betraying him despite his mind screaming at him to stop. Part of him still wants to pull away, to fight it, but the bigger part of him just wants to give in, to let go and submit himself to what these men have planned for him. His entire body is on fire, his skin slick with sweat and anticipation, the heat only increasing when Lambert grabs hold that infernal plug again. He eases it out of him, slowly and teasingly, the slow drag of the bulb almost making him shout. He feels strangely empty without it, open and gaping and desperate for something to fill that void, but then he feels something else nudge at his backside, blunt and slick and hot. Geralt keens, still attempting to twist away but it’s already breaching him, pushing past the surprisingly relaxed muscle, aided both by Eskel’s hands on his hips and Lambert gripping the ties around his arms, as he slowly sinks down on Eskel’s cock. It’s agony. It’s _exquisite_. 

Finally, he stills, panting like he’s just fought a mantichore, Eskel buried inside him to the hilt. The man beneath him seems to be just as affected as he is, though, his hair plasted to his face with sweat, his breaths coming out in fast, shallow puffs as he grips Geralt’s hips so tight that he’s sure to leave bruises. They stay like that for a moment, panting and lost in the sensation. Geralt’s thighs are trembling, aching to move, to feel Eskel slide in and out of him, but with the ropes and the tight grip both men have on him, he can’t so much as shift his hips. So he waits, aching and wanting, his own cock still hard and leaking and desperate for something, anything to take the edge off, even though that horrible ring will keep him from truly getting what he wants.

With a grunt, Eskel relaxes his grip on Geralt’s hips, but only so much. “Go on, Wolf,” he murmurs, arching his hips just a little, the slight movement making Geralt groan and shift, trying to meet his movement but hindered by the rope around his thighs, “you want something, you work for it. Let us see that famed witcher strength.”

Geralt whines, the sound high and needy, and considers refusing for a brief second. He can’t give in, he can’t let them humiliate him like this. But he’s so hard, the throb under his skin is so insistent, that even with the Prince’s words still ringing in his head he wants to move, to fuck himself on the bandit’s cock and get as much pleasure as he can out of it. 

His legs are still tied, so he can’t fully pull himself up and sink back down again, but he can move roll his hips just fine, the slow movement dragging Eskel’s cock right across that particularly wonderful spot inside of him. Geralt moves agonizingly slow, intent on giving Eskel at least a small taste of the torture he’s been putting Geralt through, dragging out the movement as much as he can. The muscles in his legs and abdomen start to protest almost immediately, but the ache only adds to his desperation, contrasting the pleasure he derives from being fucked - being _forced_ \- like this beautifully. 

Eskel seems fine with his ministrations for a while, soft moans falling from his lips and his strong hands remaining on Geralt’s hips as the witcher rides him, holding on rather than gripping. After a short while though, it’s clear that he’s getting a little frustrated, something a small part of Geralt delights in. He doesn’t change tactics, however, meeting Eskel’s burning gaze head-on as he continues to slowly ride the man beneath him, baring his teeth in a challenging grin. Two can play this game, after all.

Without any warning, Eskel’s hold on Geralt’s hips tightens and he bucks up, driving into the witcher so hard Geralt almost loses his balance, being lifted clean off the mattress. Thankfully, Lambert is still behind him, balancing him by gripping onto his bound arms and pulling him upright. Eskel drops back down, the sudden shift in position serving to bury him even deeper, almost impossibly so and drawing a surprised _“hah!”_ from Geralt. He gets no time to adjust, Eskel is already lifting him again, fingers digging into Geralt’s hipbones as he holds him up just high enough to create some space between them. After repositioning his legs and digging his heels into the mattress, he starts to move, his moans transforming into grunts that escape from behind clenched teeth as he pounds up and into Geralt.

Geralt doesn’t even attempt to escape this time, his head swimming with pleasure at the rough back-and-forth thrusts. He moans, whines, wriggles, his head thrown back in ecstasy as he tries to meet Eskel halfway, tries to meets the bandit’s movements, to bury him even deeper and add to the roiling pleasure thrumming through his veins. The sounds he makes would make his cheeks color bright red with shame in any other situation, but he’s past caring, lost in the friction between them and the promise of release, so close but always just out of reach, staved off by that merciless ring that seems to get tighter and tighter with every thrust.

It’s over too soon, yet not soon enough. Eskel’s grunts get louder, more desperate, his mouth falling open and his head thrown back as his thrusts get wilder, less coordinated. Geralt drinks in the sight, his own movements getting just as sloppy as Eskel archs under him, nails biting in the skin of Geralt’s thighs as he shudders, moans and spills, hot and heavy inside of the witcher. He gives a couple of final thrusts, though there’s decidedly less energy behind them, then stills, shivering and catching his breath. Geralt, however, is shivering for entirely different reasons, still so hard that it hurts, muscles trembling and aching, both from the exercise and the strain of being in the same position for so long. The ache will only get worse, he realizes, and the anticipation of that ache, as well as how long it will be until he’s allowed to come, makes him dizzy, causing his eyes to flutter shut for a moment.

“Getting tired there, Wolf?” the Prince asks, his voice piercing through the haze of desire and forcing Geralt back to reality, “you look like you can’t take much more. Would you like to ask us for something?” There’s a hint of cruelty in his voice, a delight at how Geralt is suffering, but there’s also a clear sense of desire, of promise. Geralt forces his eyes open, turning to the Prince again, far past caring that his wants are out in the open, visible to everyone in the room. The Prince has rid himself of all his clothes by now, showing off surprisingly wide shoulders, muscular arms and legs, soft hair dusting his chest and stomach. His nakedness does not make him anymore vulnerable, instead only adding to his dominance, and he meets Geralt’s gaze, clearly enjoying what he sees on the witcher’s face. “I can give you what you want, dear Wolf,” he murmurs, soft but clear as a bell, “all you have to do is ask nicely. Do you want to ask?” There’s an unspoken reassurance in the question, one Geralt picks up on despite all the other sensations battling for his attention. He looks into the Prince’s deep blue eyes, knowing that he can ask for it to end, if he were so inclined. But there’s also something else, something heated and challenging, daring him almost. Geralt grins, baring his canines and doesn’t break the eye-contact, answering the challenge in the Prince’s gaze without uttering a single sound. 

The Prince’s grin doesn’t falter one bit when he realizes what Geralt is doing. “Stubborn, dear Wolf. You might come to regret that. But alas, if this is your wish, who am I to deny you?” His gaze shifts to Lambert and he nods.

“Fucking finally,” Lambert growls and there’s a shuffle, the rustle of fabric and then he’s pulling Geralt up roughly. Eskel’s softened cock slides out of him, but Geralt barely has time to lament the loss, because Lambert is already pressing up against him, cock hot and hard and insistent as he slides inside in one brutal thrust. The air is punched out of his lungs as Lambert bottoms out, pressing his hips against Geralt so hard he’s nearly sent toppling over. Lambert keeps him like that, half-bent over, still kneeling over Eskel, only held upright by the other man’s firm grip on the ropes around his arms. He wastes no time, his hips pistoning back and forth brutally, making Geralt’s teeth rattle with every thrust.

Eskel scoots back a little more, half-sitting against the pillows, and looks at Geralt with an expression of unbridled awe. He must be a sight, Geralt thinks, his eyes fluttering shut and his mouth drooping half-open, feeling strands of his hair sticking to his face with sweat. He’s rocking back and forth to Lambert’s rhythm, the air around them filled with the slapping of skin on sweat-slicked skin and the soft sound of “ah, ah, _ah!_ ” falling from his lips and Geralt finds that he can’t even bring himself to care anymore. He’s way past shame or embarrassment, there’s only this moment, the toe-curling pleasure of Lambert’s cock hitting that spot that makes him see stars while his aching cock is ignored. It’s too much, it’s not enough, it’s ecstasy and torture. 

Then Lambert gives him a particularly hard thrust and Geralt actually sobs. He can feel tears starting to prick in the corners of his eyes, can feel his fingers ache with how tight he’s balled his fists. His skin burning with need, his stomach curling in knots and he can’t, he can’t take this anymore, he needs release. “I…” he sobs, “I want to…” Fuck, he can barely think from how close he is to coming, how his dick aches and throbs between his legs, straining against that infernal ring.

“What do you want?” the Prince whispers and Geralt lets out another broken moan, opening his eyes, finding the Prince right next to him, crouched down with his elbows on the side of the bed. Fuck, when did he get so close, when did he slip out of his chair and walk up to the side of the bed? He’s so close Geralt can see the smallest ring of blue around the black of his widened pupils, can see the artery on the side of his neck fluttering with his elevated heartbeat, can _smell_ the arousal rolling off of him in waves and it makes everything so much better and so. Much. Worse. From behind the Prince, Geralt catches a glimpse of Eskel’s face going slack, his eyes wide and his lips parted in surprise and awe and desire. He does not move though, stays perfectly still in anticipation of what’s to come. 

“Look at me, love,” the Prince whispers and he tangles a hand in Geralt’s hair, pulling oh so gently, like a lover, drawing his attention back to those blue eyes, “tell me what you want and I’ll give it to you. You’ve been so good to us, haven’t you?” 

“Please,” Geralt whines, “please, I can’t… I need to come, I’ve been good, please let me come, I can’t-”

Lambert lets out a littany of swears, guttural and filthy, and speeds up, finally toppling Geralt over as he pounds into him and Geralt moans helplessly, Eskel’s hands on his shoulders and holding him in place as Lambert bottoms out a final time. Hot seed spilling into the witcher and Lambert swears again, biting back the syllables behind clenched teeth as he stills, panting and shaking. “Fucking hell, Songbird,” he mumbles between large gulps of air, “just… _fuck_.”

“Later, Lambert,” the Prince mumbles, not raising his voice but there’s an edge there, not quite a warning, but not warm either, “we still have a Wolf to take care of. He’s been a good boy, hasn’t he? Let’s give him his reward.” Geralt lets out a whine at those words and he wiggles, twisting his wrists in the ropes, desperate for anything the Prince is willing to give him. 

Lambert swears again, but there’s an amused lilt in his voice and he pulls out. Geralt barely has time to feel the seed trickling out of him before the world tilts as the two bandits swiftly flip him over, pulling him onto his back and against the headboard, stuffing pillows against his back before retreating. The Prince is on the bed in an instant, cheeks red from the wine as well as pleasure, his eyes wide and dark and eager. He crawls between Geralt’s legs, still tied and splayed open because he doesn’t care to pull them together. Strong, callused hands lovingly caress the backs of his thighs, spreading them wider before coming to rest on his hips. The Prince leans over him, his body caging Geralt in a way that should be terrifying but instead makes him feel safe, almost precious. Then there’s the now familiar feel of heat and pressure and the Prince groans as he slides in, Geralt’s body accepting him easily, like he belongs. Geralt groans, pants, his breaths coming out in hot, wet puffs, his eyes unfocused. He tries to push against the Prince, tries to get him to move faster, harder, but with his arms still tied and his legs splayed wide, he can scarcely do more than take it.

The Prince stills for a moment, dropping his head on Geralt’s shoulder and breathing heavily, his hands clenching around the witcher’s hips. “Almost made me come right then and there, Wolf,” he murmurs into Geralt’s ear, his voice deep and raw, “and we don’t want this party to be over just yet, do we?” He rolls his hips gently, drawing another desperate sound from Geralt, and chuckles. “Fuck, you sound like you were made for this. You looked so good when my men were working on you, riling you up until you were ready for me.” He pulls back a little, their eyes meeting as he rolls his hips again, a little harder this time. “I’m going to take care of you, dear Wolf. You’ve been so good, you deserve a reward and I’ll give it to you.” With that, he hoists Geralt’s hips up, rising up on his knees and starts to pound, strong and even, but not nearly as rough as the men before him.

Geralt’s eyes roll into the back of his head and he moans, his mouth open and his fists, buried it the pillows beneath him, clenched tight. The Prince is way gentler with him than Lambert and Eskel were, but that makes it all the more unbearable. The slow drag of his cock, the deliberate way with which he hits Geralt’s prostate again and again and again, the press of his fingers around Geralt’s hips… he sobs, chokes, moans and twists, wanting it to end and at the same time wanting it to never stop.

“Please,” he garbles when a particularly slow stroke makes him almost go mad with pleasure, his cock straining and aching and leaking against his belly, “please please please, I can’t take it anymore, let me, let me come, please, _please, I can’t-_ ”

“Oh _fuck,_ ” someone says - Geralt can’t tell who anymore, lost in the throes of pleasure -, “fuck, can I-”

“Touch yourself,” the Prince growls, not letting up, not even looking away from Geralt but the comment is clearly directed at the speaker, “I want you two to come to the sight of our witcher breaking.”

There’s more swearing, the sound of movement, two figures kneeling on either side of the bed, their hands moving in that tell-tale way as they stare at the witcher, drinking in the sight. Geralt wants to turn away, wants to hide from them, but he can’t feel his limbs properly anymore, he can barely move, can barely see or hear, can only focus on those deliberate thrusts. One of the Prince’s hands leave his hips and wrap around his cock and Geralt wails at the feel of those calluses on the aching, overstimulated flesh, another litany of pleas falling from his lips. Fuck, he’s going to pass out, he’s going mad, he’s going to burst with pleasure, he doesn’t know anymore.

“Fuck, yes, you’re doing so well, my darling, you’re so good to me, so _fucking_ good,” the Prince hisses, “that’s it, that’s it, I’m almost there, almost, almost…” He swears again, hips stuttering, and he fumbles between them, fingers twiddling with that horrible ring for a second before he lets out a noise of success. Geralt feels the band of metal _finally_ giving way, feels it slip away and then he’s overcome by the pleasure, rolling over him like a wave breaking through a dam. Geralt throws his head back, his back arching and he screams, tears streaming down his face as he comes and comes and comes, his vision whiting out and all sound around him blurring together, drowned out by the sensation of long-denied release finally being granted. 

He is vaguely aware of the Prince’s movements getting more urgent, more desperate, and then he feels the Prince’s climax fill him, feels the man still above him and collapse, panting. There’s a sudden warm heaviness on top of him, puffs of hot air against his ear from where the Prince has collapsed on top of him, his face tucked in the side of Geralt’s neck as he catches his breath, his rapid heart-beat gradually slowing down. As this happens, Geralt slowly comes back to himself, to his own body, to the feel of the mixed fluids slowly leaking out of him and the stickiness of his own release slowly cooling on his chest. He groans with discomfort, becoming aware of the press of the ropes around him and the strain the prolonged bondage is doing to his muscles, but he has no words left to tell them. He can only lay there, a sloppy, fucked out mess, boneless and speechless and tired and so, so satisfied.

The weight on top of him vanishes as Jaskier pulls out, drawing a whine from Geralt. “Shhh, my love,” he whispers, his lips ghosting over Geralt’s forehead, “it’s alright, we got you. Just lay back and let us take care of you.” The words are very similar to what he said earlier, but his voice is warm and loving now, the intent so different than when he spoke them as the Robber Prince, and Geralt feels himself relax even more, laying back against the pillows, slipping into a space somewhere between consciousness and oblivion.

First there is the feeling of warm, soft cloth, slightly damp, carefully wiping down his front, then his back after he’s turned over carefully. Inquisitive fingers check for damage and discomfort, carefully prodding at his sensitive hole despite his whining. A warm hand on his shoulder, thumb rubbing in soothing circles, calms him down. There’s a soft voice murmuring too, but he’s so far gone he can’t hear the words, the cadence of the voice being the only thing he can understand. It’s enough though, the lilt and drop and rhythm centering him and making him feel safe.

Nimble hands unbuckle the collar from his throat and unwind the ropes, unfolding his arms and carefully stretching them out before doing the same to his legs. He winces when his calf cramps up, then lets out a sigh when those same hands start to massage the offending muscle, soothing the cramps with gentle pressure, aided by some kind of oil that makes him groan appreciatively. More hands join in, rubbing at his shoulders, his arms and his back, warm and firm and soothing. He lets himself drift for a while, safe and content and warm, utterly relaxed in his soft cocoon. His breaths come slowly and evenly, his eyes still shut, his entire body pliant and loose and comfortable in a way he seldomly gets to be. At some point, there’s a mug of water being pressed to his lips and he drinks, slowly, until the mug is pulled away again. He hums when he’s rolled onto his side and a body presses against his, not demanding like earlier, but soft and comforting, arms wrapping around him and holding him gently, a soft voice humming in his ear as he drifts off.

Later, much later, when he slowly feels himself drift back to the surface, he becomes aware of new sensations. There’s sounds around him, soft breaths and gentle snoring, as well as warmth, the warmth of several bodies piled onto the soft bed together, pressed up close and safe. When he inhales, gentle but deliberate, he picks up chamomile and lavender, as well as the smells of home, of the keep, and he’s feels a smile curl around his mouth, completely content in the feeling of familiarity and safety as he presses closer to the warm body beneath him.

There’s a sleepy huff, as if someone wakes up from a doze, and then there’s strong fingers in his hair, gently combing through it. “Back with us, love?”

Geralt opens his eyes and lazily takes in the situation. He’s laying across Jaskier’s chest, boxed in by Eskel and Lambert, who have taken positions on either side of and are dozing, their faces as relaxed as Geralt feels. Jaskier, propped half-upright by the many pillows, smiles down at the three of them, eyes brimming with unspoken love, admiration and tenderness. “You were floating for quite some time there, Geralt. I was worried we actually broke you this time,” he teases.

At the sound of the bard’s voice, the other witchers stir. Eskel huffs and curls up smaller, pressing his face into the pillows for a moment before peeking out again, one half-open yellow eye staring blearily at the rest of his bed-partners. Lambert, on the other hand, seems up and alert in an instant, sitting up and stretching, a lazy grin on his face. “Morning, sunshine. Sleep alright?”

Geralt hums, not quite up for talking yet, and lets his eyes flutter shut again, smiling when Jaskier resumes carding his fingers through his hair.

“Oy, what are you so sleepy for? ‘S far as I know, we did all the work,” Lambert grumbles, but there’s not heat in his words, only fond exasperation. He swings his legs over the edge of the bed and gets up, not bothering to grab even a shirt. “Well then, since we’re all up, I vote we eat. I’m starving and those sweet-rolls are calling my name.” 

“Fuck, that’s your best idea ever,” Eskel says, ignoring the indignant squawk at his remark and getting up too, stumbling over to the table in the corner, on which Geralt can see a small spread of food. There’s sweet-rolls, like Lambert said, as well as apples, small blocks of cheese, nuts, a loaf of bread with butter and a jar of honey and… Geralt sits up a little when he spots the small bowl of strawberries, beckoning him almost and he feels his stomach rumble at the sight of them. He makes to get up too, but Jaskier pulls him back gently. 

“None of that now,” he says, “we agreed you were gonna let us take care of you. Lay back down, you oaf.” His tone is gentle but firm, so Geralt sighs and sinks back into the pillows and Jaskier, resting his head on the bard’s shoulder as Eskel and Lambert move the table closer to the bed, putting it within reach before grabbing anything that takes their fancy. Wordlessly, Jaskier leans over and grabs the bowl of strawberries. Instead of offering it to Geralt, though, he puts it down on the bed next to him and takes one of the fruits. “Open up,” he says and when Geralt does, he gently feeds him the strawberry, which is perfectly ripe and sweet and juicy despite it being almost winter. He looks up at Jaskier, who understands his unspoken question immediately. “Same shop where I got that lovely ring,” he says casually, smiling when Geralt’s face goes a little pink at the memory. “They had a bag with a stasis spell on it, for preserving food longer. When you agreed to this particular game, I figured I have as many tools to spoil you as possible. And well,” he adds, almost casually as he picks up another strawberry, “if I can get you to eat a little more by giving you your favorite treat, why should I not take that opportunity?”

Another berry follows, then another, and as Jaskier calmly feeds him the entire bowl, Geralt feels the small part of him that’s uncomfortable with the tenderness dissolve and he relaxes, letting himself enjoy being cared for. When he finally swallows the last piece, he sighs, licking his lips to get one final taste of the fruit, before smiling up at Jaskier. “Thank you,” he says, softly.

Jaskier practically beams down at him. “You’re welcome, Geralt. How are you feeling now?”

“Fine,” Geralt answers, then adds “Good,” when he realizes that ‘fine’ doesn’t quite cut it. 

“Yeah?” Jaskier replies, his smile widening, “that’s good, I’m so glad to hear it. Anything you liked in particular?”

Geralt hums, thinking it over for a little, trying to put his feelings into words. “You,” he finally says, “the way you made me feel. Made me feel like I could just… let go and let it all happen, because you would take care of me. Because I was safe. And uh,” he adds, feeling a pink blush crawl onto his cheeks, “I liked the collar. A lot.”

“I’m glad!” Jaskier seems to relax just a fraction, as if he were tensing up for something and now realizes that he doesn’t have to. “You were wonderful, my dear. Absolutely wonderful.” He lets his gaze drift over to the other witchers, who have also finished their food and are lounging on the bed again. “You all were.”

Eskel smiles up at Jaskier, his eyes soft. “You weren’t bad yourself.”

“I’ll say,” Lambert drawl, “fuck, Songbird, the mouth on you. I think if we hadn’t discussed a script beforehand, I would have combusted from your words alone.”

“Now there’s an interesting idea to try out next time,” Jaskier chuckles, reaching over to cup the youngest Wolf’s cheek, “what do you think, Lamb? Shall I tie you up and make you come by the sound of my voice? Or maybe,” he adds, thoughtfully, “maybe we should make it a competition next time. See which one of you can last longest when I talk about all the things I want to do to you, all the things I want you to do to me. Sound good?”

“Fuck, let me recover from this time first,” Lambert groans, flopping down on the edge of the bed, “I think I won’t be able to get it up for another week.”

“Ooooh, is old age finally getting to you, Lamb?” Eskel teases, then squawks when Lambert hits him in the head with a well-thrown pillow.

“I won’t hear anything on aging from you, old man,” he growls, already grabbing for another pillow.

“Boys,” Jaskier says, voice gentle but commanding, “I’m still very much enjoying the afterglow of today and I’d like to bask in it for a little longer. Why don’t we all go down to the hot-springs? I’d like to go for a long soak.” 

There’s a brief pause as all three witchers consider that idea. “You know what? I like that idea. Race you there!” Lambert is out the door before any of them can so much as get up, making Jaskier bark out a laugh and Eskel shake his head.

“I better go and see that he doesn’t slip and crack his head open on the steps,” the scarred witcher says, before getting up too and walking out of the room. Jaskier watches him go with a fond smile on his face before turning back to Geralt.

“You good to go?” he asks, his fingers trailing across Geralt’s shoulder, both of them understand that he’s not just talking about the hot-springs.

Geralt hums softly, then turns his head and presses a kiss to those long fingers. “More than. Let’s go for that soak.”

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilery summary: Geralt, Jaskier, Eskel and Lambert are in an established poly relationship and roleplay at a kidnapping gangbang scenario with consensual non-consent. Everything is pre-negotiated, there are some mentions of safewords and BDSM-practices peppered in, as well as aftercare.


End file.
